


Craving for Silence and Flute Playing…

by FievreAlgide



Category: French Revolution RPF
Genre: Dubious Consent, Forced Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 05:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21315190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FievreAlgide/pseuds/FievreAlgide
Summary: Le Bas angsts about Élisabeth and it seriously annoys Saint-Just. (A silly fic written a long time ago reposted today for Le Bas' birthday.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8
Collections: Fleeting and Frivolous Mundane Moments in the Life of Two Otherwise Very Serious Revolutionaries





	Craving for Silence and Flute Playing…

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on LiveJournal on October 8, 2006.

“I miss Babet.”

Those were the words Le Bas kept on repeating, day after day, again and again, once a day, at the very least, but sometimes more. Even his sighs screamed BABET, with heartache and romantic exasperation. Saint-Just tried to concentrate on his flute playing, but he could still hear him, desperately wishing to babble about woman-related inanity. Le Bas even insisted to sit on the side of his friend’s bed. Saint-Just had no clear idea _why_ – apart that _pauvre_ Philippe missed Babet.

As if the situation wasn’t painful and tormenting enough, there was that dog he had found, which refused to stop crying! Saint-Just told Le Bas that this dog was counter-revolutionary – all those whimpers seemed a plot to bring his mind over the edge of sanity.

“What’s wrong with it?” Saint-Just asked, beginning to understand he would never get the peace necessary to listen to his own music.

“I think he misses Babet too.”

Saint-Just couldn’t resist a grin. “It hasn’t met your Babet yet.”

“Yes, but he’s anticipating. Eh, Schillichem?”

The dog whimpered an answer. Oh _joie_. And Philippe has gone insane. Speaking to a dog is already quite strange, but to speak to a whimpering foreign dog about your wife who is kilometres away! 

“You know, he probably only understands German… and then, you’d be wasting your time.”

“Nonsense; he’s a patriotic French dog.”

Saint-Just frowned; he began to wonder if his friend would ever have any common sense.

“I’m pretty sure he belonged to a Prussian.”

“Perhaps… but then, it would have to be a _dead_ Prussian.”

Saint-Just said nothing more, hoping this would be a good enough clue for Le Bas to understand he wanted him to keep silent now; he _did_ have that dog to pet and to whisper to… but no, Philippe didn’t get it.

“I miss Babet…”

_‘Now, if you could just shut your eyes and pretend that dog is your wife…’_ He really considered saying that, but… he didn’t. Maybe Le Bas would get the message if he started playing the flute again. Not that it would _actually_ stop him or anything.

“If only I could describe to you the spark in her eyes when I see her after so many months. Her laugh is so melodious… They called her scatterbrained, but they’re all wrong; she’s much more thoughtful than anyone seems to believe. We cry together, sometimes… for the war to be over, for the pain to disappear, for our golden era to come. Maybe we also cry selfishly, I don’t know…”

Saint-Just couldn’t tell if that was a question or a statement. He preferred not to attempt a reply; comfort would bring a continuation of his sorrowful monologue about Élisabeth. 

Le Bas turned around, looking at Saint-Just with that face… that face his dog had, in fact. He suddenly wondered if his music didn’t perhaps happen to be _sad_ and whether _he_ was inspiring all the melancholy.

“Do you think she’ll like him?” Le Bas asked.

“Who?”

“Do you think Élisabeth will like Schillichem?”

Saint-Just nodded, “Yeah.” He could have added _‘though he probably cries as much as both of you together…’_ but again, it was wiser not to say anything like that.

Le Bas sighed – that was usually the sign he would say the three dreadful words again.

“I mis—” 

“Look, Philippe.” Saint-Just interrupted, sitting closer to him on the side of the bed. “It will not help if you keep repeating it. She will certainly not appear in front of us. Did you a write a letter to her today?”

“Yeah… I wrote two.”

Saint-Just blinked. “I see… what if you wrote a third one?”

“Actually… I felt like talking to _you_; not the paper.”

_‘Fabuleux.’_ Le Bas was worse than his sister, Saint-Just realised. Now that he had opened this Pandora’s box, there would be no way to stop his gibberish about his loneliness and complex feelings. And Babet. Always Babet. “I can’t help it, I miss _mon Élisab_—” Saint-Just decided this would be the last time Le Bas would say this sentence for the evening. Though it did feel incredibly awkward… a sudden kiss always seemed to be the best solution to shut someone up. For the comfort, Saint-Just was willing to _devote_ himself… if not for the shock it would cause Le Bas for the week – which promised to be the best part of it. Perhaps it would make him temporarily mute. Naturally, it was a lot pricklier than the few shy kisses he shared with Henriette and it didn’t have Maxime’s kindling taste of orange, but it was… _fine_, Saint-Just supposed. Strangely enough, Le Bas didn’t resist – he probably didn’t realise what was happening. Even if hands pulled at his hair, even when a tongue pushed intensely into his mouth, he did nothing, barely gripping Saint-Just’s arms but not trying to throw him away. Le Bas only, finally, reacted when his companion’s body rolled over his on the bed. He moaned, but that wasn’t quite a lustful moan. “Antoine, _cesse!_” He shouted, when he could find a way to free his lips from his friend’s. He didn’t appear to appreciate either when Saint-Just’s hand wandered down to his crotch. He fought and pushed him away, muttering a few furious “_Pousse-toi, allez!_” He walked to the other side of the tent, his hair unkempt and with a scarlet blush which refused to leave his cheeks. Saint-Just still lay on the bed, an elbow propped on the sheets and his head resting against his palm. 

“Saint-Just, you are—” 

For answer Saint-Just gave him his usual impassive face and a rise of his eyebrows. Le Bas didn’t try to add another half-finished sentence to summarise his experience. With an irked sigh, he stormed out of the tent, trying to find his composure in the cold air of night. Saint-Just smirked; apparently, Le Bas didn’t want to feel what Babet felt… though… that crotch had been quite hard.

Saint-Just threw a glance at the dog next to the bed, which had stayed there all along, observing – the pervert. It didn’t even cry anymore.

“Well, Schillichem?”

~ The End.


End file.
